When Lord Earlscourt was at home the only two topics that were debarred from the dinner table were religion and politics; but when Lord Earlscourt was absent these were the only two topics admitted at the dinner table. Lady Earlscourt had views, well-defined, clearly outlined, on both religion and politics, and she greatly regretted that there still remained some people in the world who held other views on both subjects; it was very sad--for them; and she felt that it was clearly her duty to endeavor by all the legitimate means in her power--say, dinner parties for eight--to reduce the number of these persons. It was rumored that in the country she had shown herself ready to effect her excellent object by illegitimate means--say, jelly and flannel petticoats--as well.
She wore distinctly evangelical boots, though, in the absence of her husband, she had expressed her willingness to discuss the advantages of the confessional. She had, however, declined, in the presence of her husband, to entertain the dogma of infallibility: though she admitted that the cardinals were showy; she would have liked one about her house, say, as a footman. She thought there was a great deal in Buddhism (she had read "The Light of Asia" nearly through), and she believed that the Rev. George Holland had been badly treated by Phyllis Ayrton. She admitted having been young once--only once; but no one seemed to remember it against her, so she was obliged to talk about it herself, which she did with the lightness of a serious woman of thirty-two. When a man had assured her that she was still handsome, she had shaken her head deprecatingly, and had ignored his existence ever after. She had her doubts regarding the justice of eternal punishment for temporary lapses in the West End, but she sympathized with the missionary who said: "Thank God we have still got our hell in the East End." She knew that all men are alike in the sight of Heaven, but she thought that the licensing justices should be more particular.
She believed that there were some good men.
She had more than once talked seriously to Phyllis on the subject of George Holland. Of course, George Holland had been indiscreet; the views expressed in his book had shocked his best friends, but think how famous that book had made him, in spite of the publication of Mr. Courtland's "Quest of the Meteor-Bird." Was Phyllis not acting unkindly, not to say indiscreetly, in throwing over a man who, it was rumored, was about to start a new religion? She herself, Lady Earlscourt admitted, had been very angry with George Holland for writing something that the newspapers found it to their advantage to abuse so heartily; and Lord Earlscourt, being a singularly sensitive man, had been greatly worried by the comments which had been passed upon his discrimination in intrusting to a clergyman who could bring himself to write "Revised Versions" a cure of such important souls as were to be found at St. Chad's. He had, in fact, been so harassed--he was a singularly sensitive man--that he had found it absolutely necessary to run across to Paris from time to time for a change of scene. (This was perfectly true. Lord Earlscourt had gone more than once to Paris for a change of scene, and had found it; Lady Earlscourt was thirty-two, and wore evangelical boots.) But, of course, since George Holland's enterprise had turned out so well socially, people who entertained could not be hard on him. There was the new religion to be counted upon. It was just as likely as not that he would actually start a new religion, and you can't be hard upon a man who starts a new religion. There was Buddha, for instance,--that was a long time ago, to be sure; but still there he was, the most important factor to be considered in attempting to solve the great question of the reconcilement of the religions of the East,--Buddha, and Wesley, and Edward Irving, and Confucius, and General Booth; if you took them all seriously where would you be?
"Oh, no, my dear Phyllis!" continued Lady Earlscourt; "you must not persist in your ill-treatment of Mr. Holland. If you do he may marry someone else."
Phyllis shook her head.
"I hope he will, indeed," said she. "He certainly will never marry me."
"Do not be obdurate," said Lady Earlscourt. "He may not really believe in all that he put into that book."
"Then there is no excuse for his publishing it," said Phyllis promptly.
"But if he doesn't actually hold the views which he has formulated in that book, you cannot consistently reject him on the plea that he is not quite--well, not quite what you and I call orthodox."
This contention was too plain to be combated by the girl. She did not for a moment see her way out of the amazing logic of the lady. Quite a minute had passed before she said:
"If he propounds such views without having a firm conviction that they are true, he has acted a contemptible part, Lady Earlscourt. I think far too highly of him to entertain for a single moment the idea that he is not sincere."
"But if you believe that he is sincere, why should you say that you will not marry him?"
"I would not marry an atheist, however sincere he might be."
"An atheist! But Mr. Holland is not an atheist; on the contrary, he actually believes that there are two Gods; one worshiped of the Jews long ago, the other by us nowadays. An atheist! Oh, no!"
"I'm afraid that I can't explain to you, dear Lady Earlscourt."
Once more Phyllis shook her head with some degree of sadness. She felt that it would indeed be impossible for her to explain to this lady of logic that she believed the truth to be a horizon line, and that any opinion which was a little above this line was as abhorrent as any that was a little below it.
"If you are stubborn, God may marry you to a Dissenter yet," said Lady Earlscourt solemnly.
Phyllis smiled and shook her head again.
"Oh, you needn't shake your head, my dear," resumed Lady Earlscourt.
